


we paint dreams behind our eyes

by dictionarysays



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictionarysays/pseuds/dictionarysays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things don’t always go as planned; Nakai knows that, he’s looking at it in his kitchen right now; lumbering with a grace that shouldn’t be there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we paint dreams behind our eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faiee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Faiee).



 

The concert’s over and Shingo’s been at Nakai’s place every day this week.   
  
Nakai doesn’t know when a late night get together that involved a surprising amount of beer (he still swears to half the cans in the trash but Shingo knows better) turned into Shingo sleeping on his couch and ended up with them sharing his bed Friday night.   
  
Somewhere along the way, Shingo had begun to produce a constant change of clothes and was marching into Nakai’s house unannounced, spare keys hanging from his mouth, arms filled to the brim with grocery bags.   
  
Nakai supposes that he’s partly to blame—it’s not as if he’s been actively complaining to the younger man. He’d mentioned it once and that was on a Tuesday after a long day of recording at the studio, and it had been part curiosity but mostly sleep-deprived.   
  
Shingo had waved it off with a laugh though; mumbling something about wanting apple pie before falling asleep on the futon. 

  
-

  
“Okay, seriously, we are not having fish again,” Shingo’s rummaging in the fridge when he says this—all Nakai wants is something in his mouth and now. Grilled fish seemed like the quickest option, but Shingo’s not having any of that. “You ate it all yesterday didn’t you? It’s like the stuff  _multiplies_.”   
  
“It’s my house, you know—”  
  
“Right, but I’m the only one who can cook rice in this place, so,” he pops his head out from the fridge, smiling big. It’s Sunday and Nakai’s been up for nearly an hour and he knows he should stop being surprised by how wide Shingo’s shoulders are and how they block out the whole fridge, but he’s not. “I’m thinking of making pasta. What do ya’ think?”  
  
“Sure.” Nakai croaks, scratching his ear. Shingo’s food is always good, anyway.   
  
Who’s he to object to a free meal?  
  
The next half hour is a blur made up of Shingo humming something by Love Psychedelico, Nakai flipping the TV on (there isn’t even any baseball), and the smell of roasted tomatoes and garlic filling the room. Nakai’s stomach growls more than once, so he slips into the kitchen and grabs an orange and is watching the back of Shingo’s shirt bunch every time he stirs before he even realizes that all that’s left of the orange is the peel.   
  
When did this ever become a  _we_ -aren’t-having-fish situation, Nakai ponders, bringing the orange peel up to his mouth. He has no problem admitting to himself that once the tour had ended, he’d actually been looking forward to spending time with just himself. He still tosses and turns some nights when he remembers she’s not here—he bites down on the peel, dazed, not caring it’s bitter and that he’ll spit it out in a minute.   
  
Things don’t always go as planned; Nakai knows that, he’s looking at it in his kitchen right now; lumbering with a grace that shouldn’t be there.   
  
He makes a face and lets his mouth hang open, the chewed-on orange peel falling into his hands. He hopes the tang doesn’t ruin the pasta later.   
  
“Get some plates, it’s almost done,” if Nakai weren’t so hungry, he’d question the brisk way Shingo says this, like he isn’t the youngest and Nakai isn’t the oldest, but he’s starving and it smells  _so good_ —he brings over two plates from the rack.   
  
In no time at all, Shingo’s filled both plates, and it may as well be strings of gold with the way the afternoon light that filters in through the window above the sink hits it perfectly, and Nakai has no idea how he’s lived off fish and rice for so long.   
  
“ _S’good_ ,” Nakai forks the food into his mouth quicker than he probably should—it’s not that he doesn’t want to savour it and that he isn’t grateful for the younger man’s cooking abilities, but he’s running off an earlier than usual dinner from yesterday and he hadn’t woken up in time for breakfast.   
  
The only reason he knows Shingo is grinning all smug-like is because of the breath that puffs out of his nose and the fact when he looks up a second later, Shingo’s waggling his eyebrows like he’s got a secret to tell and he’s already told it.   
  
“You’re moaning, yanno,” Shingo kindly points out.  
  
Nakai sniffs. “I’m aware.”  
  


-

  
Afterwards when the tour is over, Tsuyoshi wants to ask why he didn’t tell them sooner and he does. They’re having dinner with staff and Nakai manages to smile and distract him with more beer when Tsuyoshi asks. Three cans in, they’re trading anecdotes and Tsuyoshi has no idea what he’s saying anymore (Nakai almost feels bad). Kimura on the other hand pins him with looks that say  _I’m still here, you idiot, even after eighteen years_  and that’s what scares him the most. Goro doesn’t say much, they don’t usually say much to each other so it’s not any different—but one night outside his dressing room Goro slings a thin arm around his waist and squeezes.   
  
Nakai doesn’t have the energy to push him away or think about how awkward it should be.   
  
Shingo surprises him the most, though. He doesn’t mention it; he lets it be except for the look they shared on stage when Nakai talked about it in front of thousands of their fans. Most of the time, Nakai likes to think they’re the most similar in the group.   
  


-

  
Nakai’s gotten to praying some nights before bed (his mom had suggested it while watching him meld his body to the cold side of his grandmother’s when she thought he was fast asleep). He doesn’t get on his knees but he does close his eyes and make sure the door’s shut.   
  
Monday night Shingo’s shuffling around in the living room when he begins to pray once more. His hands curl into tiny fists at his sides, the soles of his feet itch; but he lets his eyes fall closed all the same. His lips purse and he stands at the end of his bed—he prays for something for someone (mostly happiness for his family). After a couple of seconds though, he’s mumbling under his breath and the word SMAP comes out of his mouth.  
  
His breath hitches and he nearly stops.   
  
Nakai’s not out to admit SMAP is his family too, to a certain extent. The members are somewhere between family and friends but something entirely different at the same time. He compartmentalizes the feelings he has for the others for the most part.   
  
He doesn’t like touching people almost as much as he doesn’t like his feelings being touched. But no one gets so close to grazing the edges of his thoughts, the actual softness of his feelings like the members do.   
  
He licks his lips. He’s praying, not speaking in front of millions—if he’s ever going to admit it, it’s going to be now he figures.   
  
“I’m  _boooooooooooooored_ , entertain me—”  
  
Nakai starts, spinning around, “Whatever happened to knocking?”  
  
“It’s not like you’re naked and even if you were, I've seen most of it—even if that was two years ago... why  _do_ you cover up, anyway?” Shingo stands in the doorway, effectively blocking out any light that could’ve come in from the living room. Nakai unclenches his fists, coughing once and tidying the bed sheet at the foot of his bed.   
  
If he doesn’t, he’ll notice that his stomach has hollowed out.   
  
“I’m in my thirties and again, is knocking taboo now too?” Nakai says this quietly, wiping a hand across his face; even if Shingo noticed something, he’s sure he won’t say a thing.   
  
Shingo crosses the bedroom, “I can knock,” he picks up a beanie Nakai had left earlier on the bedside table. “I just don’t want to.”  
  
Nakai scoffs, eyeing Shingo’s profile warily before climbing onto the bed.   
  
“Right. Well, I’m going to sleep now.” He slips under the sheets, reaching to turn the lamp off, but Shingo still stands there—beanie stretched over his big head. Choppy pieces of blonde stick out from the brim.   
  
He stares, eyebrows raised. Nakai knows he could say something, that he probably  _should_ because Shingo has this thing where he’ll make things that are better left unsaid, said. But he doesn’t. He just keeps staring, not giving any thought to the way Shingo’s usually brown eyes flash and turn gold.   
  
Without a word, he stretches, turns the light off and curls onto his side, back to the younger man. He’s restless, he wants to flip onto his stomach and let the cold parts of the bed seep through his pyjamas but he can’t—Shingo’s still there, standing still. He’s holding his breath.   
  
It isn’t a surprise when after a beat, his bed bends and something big gets on. Nakai doesn’t move a muscle (he’s pretty sure the only muscle moving is his heart right now, even his lungs have stopped).   
  
“You know...” He doesn’t know what’s warmer, Shingo’s heavy arm falling across his waist or the breath on the back of his head, “I’m not a kid anymore.”   
  
That’s not what he’s supposed to say, Nakai thinks, his heart making a slow thud and his jaw turning tight. Shingo’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist and the long fingers circling his hip aren’t out of the ordinary.   
  
Shingo’s always touching someone, be it a stranger or a friend, he can’t help but have his hands on someone at anytime of the day. Throughout the years, Nakai’s slowly warmed up to the idea—more like gotten used to it. The older he’s gotten the more often he’s reassuring himself that this is Shingo and this is what he does.  
  
Despite how snarky he can be, he has a soft spot for the youngest member and doesn’t always say no.   
  
Tonight isn’t any different, not when Shingo’s pressing his nose into the curve of Nakai’s shoulder and pulling him in. Nakai finds the time to let out a stalled breath from his mouth and turn halfway, frowning silently, studying the fluffy top of Shingo’s hair.   
  
They’ve never gone any further than hands above the waist. Once, Shingo had been crying, Nakai can’t remember the reason anymore and the younger man had pulled Nakai’s hands past the waistband of his jeans. Nothing certain had come out of it and it’d been so long ago, Nakai gets the feeling he’s the only one who remembers.  
  
“You can stop, I won’t tell anyone—not even Tsuyopon.” Shingo’s murmuring into the skin behind his ear and skimming his hands across Nakai’s stomach before he can even make any sense of what Shingo’s just said.   
  
Nakai fists a hand into the pillow, “Stop what?”  
  
He tries to ignore the shiver that travels up the inside of his thigh when in one hasty arrangement of limbs, Shingo’s hands are cupping his face (his head is dwarfed), the entire top half of his body is turned to face him, and the bigger man’s legs are on top of his.   
  
He doesn’t look at his eyes and has a staring competition with Shingo’s jaw instead—he’s still fit from the tour and the planes of his face are sharp.   
  
“Stop being leader for once,” the fingers on his face tighten and Nakai’s tongue feels thick. “Stop being  _so fucking put together_ , you can break you know, that won’t change how we feel about you—” Shingo breaks, but later when Nakai thinks back on it, it’ll hit him that he broke way before Shingo’s voice did.   
  
The air is nearly as heavy as the feeling spreading inside Nakai’s chest. He shuts his eyes, biting down on the inside of his mouth. Big hands are still holding his face, but neither of them knows for sure who’s actually holding who now.   
  
Nakai laughs at the realization when he mumbles, “See? You’re still a kid, dummy.”   
  
Shingo’s mouth inadvertently twists into a very tiny smile. “M’not. You’re a stupid old man, is what.”   
  
He finds the energy to kick at Shingo’s shin and when he  _oofs_ , Nakai lets whatever witty comeback he would’ve easily come up with die in his throat as he rests his forehead on the side of Shingo’s face. He’s warm and Nakai knows it has more to do with the passion always bubbling beneath the surface than it does the temperature in the room.   
  
They fall asleep just like that. At least, Shingo does—Nakai waits until Shingo’s eyelids flutter and he’s slapping his lips sleepily before he twists out of the younger man’s hold. No matter how much he might love his fellow member, he can’t expect him to sleep comfortably tangled like that.   
  
He flops onto his stomach, hating how damp his bangs are and the sweat that's gathered at the back of his neck. He cranes his head a little, staring at the sleeping blonde man—he purses his lips, frustrated.   
  
He’ll blame fatigue in the morning if anyone asks, but for now (without too much thought), he reaches up and thumbs the soft turn of Shingo’s cheek. Then he traces down the slope of his nose and promises not to dwell on it when he runs a shaky set of knuckles across his slightly parted lips.   
  
His heart batters at his ribs and it’s loud in his ears and he can’t believe it’s come to this.   
  
Nakai stuffs his hands under his chest, “Don’t grow up so fast, okay? My heart races when you do.”   
  
He hides his face in the pillow after he says it. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> so this is loosely based off some true events around '05 when nakai's grandmother passed away during their sample bang! tour. he'd revealed it to everyone during one of their concerts but had earlier turned down a dinner invite after a concert from the other boys so he could go to her funeral without telling anyone about it. and apparently shingo was the only one who hadn't said anything to nakai in response to finding out about his grandmother's passing. 
> 
> now you know.


End file.
